Truth, Lie, Dare #6: Surrendering to the Shed

A reminder from the wise old oak

Welcome to Truth, Lie, Dare (TLD): a weekly presence practice where I share a truth, a lie I'm telling myself, and commit to a dare. This framework helps me write consistently while time-constrained, and it's also an invitation to reflect however best suits you. I’ve loved hearing from you, so continue to share your TLDs if so compelled.

---

Hi. I missed you last week and felt some mild guilt for not writing, but I just couldn’t fit all the things in, and sometimes it’s like that, so here we are. I don’t think anyone is sitting around clamoring for these newsletters, but consistency and connection are the goal, so I’m acknowledging that and moving forward.

Since I last wrote, Mercury went retrograde, Spring Equinox graced us with her reminders (and proof) of renewal and rebirth, and an eclipse portal is closing as I write this. March has been a cosmic soup and sandwich special, slapped between two slices of retrogrades, smothered in two eclipses, with a nice hunk of equinox in the middle and sprinkled with bigger outer planet transits to keep things spicy.” I’m one of those who loves the Occult generally, but treat it as an input vs. gospel. That said, there was something extra about March’s energy and I won’t be sad to see it go. Most everyone I know feels the same way.

How my March has been // Source: My Modern Met

Let’s TLD :)

“From the beginning, the key to renewal has been the casting off old skin”

-Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening

I was struck by this Oak tree the other day, its wounded trunk speaking to me as elements of the natural world often do on my daily walks—visceral reminders and reflections of the human condition everywhere.

A patch of its bark had fallen off revealing another layer of its trunk. Bark falls off a tree after a stressful event, like a sudden frost or excessive heat. It's also the mark of poor health and in some cases death. In this Oak's case, the white patch signals a fungus or infection localized to the outer bark, so the wise old Oak sheds the dis-eased part leaving a smooth depressed area. Note: I am not an arborist and consulted Doctor Google to diagnose this tree, so hopefully it is correct, and this tree is not, in fact dying, making this metaphor null and void.

I thought about all the times my own bark has cracked revealing a stress to be addressed, something that no longer serves me, or something that's become a hindrance.

Unlike the tree that surrenders to the simple truth of its circumstance(s), my natural inclination is to grasp my bark, to fight the elements—comfort in the familiar, fear, pride, the prospect of upsetting someone, etc.— to stay armored in the illusion of security it provides—despite all I've learned about that fallacy.

As I stood there with this tree, admiring the beauty in its shed on the forest floor and its new, smooth layer, I recognized the beauty of my own. All the colors and textures of my “bark” that have fallen over the years and the new skins that have emerged for me to inhabit. How I've softened and surrendered to myself and the circumstances of life, and how these days I welcome the shed and prefer letting go to holding on.

And I saw yours, too—my family's bark, my friends', the greater whole. We're all in this perpetual shedding process, some of us grasping our peeling layers tightly while others embrace the release.

What if we acknowledged our shedding openly? What if we named and shared the tender spots where our bark cracks instead of staying armored? Perhaps we’d find ourselves a little more connected, a little more compassionate, understanding that beneath our weather-worn exteriors lies something new waiting to breathe and soften both our experience and the world.

---

I wrote the above in December 2022, during my time living off-grid alone in Northern California, surrounded by little but wilderness and silence. Finding them this week felt like a message from my past self, arriving precisely when needed.

The beauty of documenting my journey in journals and notes and my camera roll, and many other places that make me feel like I need a Claire Danes Homeland-style whiteboard scenario to piece it all together, IYKYK, is forgotten wisdom finds its way back to me.

All those shed skins leave a record, reminders of what I’ve already learned but momentarily forgotten. I’m convinced that life is a remembering and forgetting merry-go-round and that in the end, should I be lucid before death, I’ll laugh at how simple it all was.

---

Truth—I can feel a piece of my bark ready to fall away... There's a rumbling beneath the surface, shifts underway in a facet of my life that feels significant. It's one of those threshold moments—something fundamental about how I show up, how I care for myself and navigate relationships is transmuting. The old layer has served its purpose, becoming brittle in places where new growth is pressing forward.

Lie—I can control when and how my bark falls off *laughs hysterically. I can orchestrate this transformation to be comfortable and predictable or happen on my preferred timeline. I need to understand exactly what's emerging before I can release what's falling away.

Dare—Surrender to the shed. Witness without grasping. Trust that my inner oak knows exactly what needs to fall away and when. Stand in the sacred space of in-between. Allow myself the grace to be tender in this becoming. Ask for help when I need it.

---

I leave you with two meditations on shedding from The Book of Awakening by the great Mark Nepo, who reminds us that “the courage of transformation is the willingness to show ourselves completely so that everything concealed can be revealed.”

Big love and hugs to you wherever you are. May you find beauty in what falls away this week. May you trust the wisdom of your own shedding.

xo

Lisa

---